


In Hell

by Skitty_the_Great



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, F/M, Supernatural Kink Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 04:03:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3473726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitty_the_Great/pseuds/Skitty_the_Great
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For thirty years, Dean said no to taking up the knife.  When he finally said yes, it was the act of a broken man.  Meg, watching him struggle, is torn between amusement and understanding.  In each other, they find the only kind of violence they can truly control.  The only kind of pain they actually want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
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> 

Hell never changed. Tortures evolved, sins became seedier, or pettier, or both as the case might be, but Hell stayed the same. The light was a sickly green reflected off damp walls. The sound of screams echoed through even the quietest reaches, seeming at once distant and yet impossible to ignore. The air was heavy with the stench of blood, decay, and human filth, leaving a vaguely metallic taste at the back of the throat. And everywhere, the grime and muck of a forgotten tomb, somewhere hot, wet, and unforgiving, leaving the skin feeling moist and gritty to the touch. The cells held the dead and the dying, souls pushed to their breaking point. A human soul could never truly be destroyed but it could be broken, shattered, cut down into something more functional, something more pliable. That was, after all, what had happened to her. Wasn’t it?  


Meg trailed her hands along the walls, her fingertips smudging as they picked up dirt and grime from the slimy bricks. The hallway was so narrow she could easily reach, despite her small frame. The body was new, and much more to her taste than the last had been. That one? She’d picked for aesthetics. Her job, after all, had been to seduce a Winchester, and that couldn’t be done with just any face. Well, perhaps if she’d been trying to turn Dean’s head, it might have, but no. Sam was the horse they were all backing. Sam was the leader they would one day follow into battle. They all knew it and everything that came before was just the foreplay. So she’d chosen a face that she’d thought would appeal to him, but it had never, for one second appealed to her. Now she felt more at home in the skin. Poor girl had never stood a chance. The world could be so hard on young girls, and this one? Meg had barely gotten a glimpse of the girl’s life, her memories, her lost hopes and dreams, before she’d faded into nothing, giving up entirely. Happened sometimes. Not every possession victim got to wake up when all was said and done. Didn’t bother her in the slightest. All it meant to her was that there was less resistance within her own mind. The body worked with her seamlessly, the face pulling into familiar expressions that felt at once comfortable and natural, not the puppetry of possession she so frequently had to deal with. This skin was hers, and she liked it.  


As she stepped from the dim hallway into near blinding light, she felt a sense of homecoming that was at once comforting and unnerving at the same time. She’d never thought of this place as a torture chamber. Nor an abattoir. It more closely resembled a surgery than anything else, but even that lacked something in the description. Alastair didn’t merely torture. He created art, and his mediums were pain and suffering. He painted vast landscapes of agony in dark blood and yellow bile. He carved masterpieces from bone and wove great tapestries of skin and hair. He flayed open souls to peer inside and every moment was an exquisite use of skill. Watching him work was watching a master at his easel. This room? Was a gallery of torment.  


The rack was clean today, but it was not vacant. A quick smile flitted across her face as she surveyed the inhabitant. His clothes were dirty and torn, but still intact. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but far too quickly. His eyes might be closed, but he did not sleep. He was waiting. Preparing himself. Dean Winchester.  


Alastair stood beside the table, a tray of tools laid out beside him. His hand drifted back and forth over them, pausing over this or that, choosing his paint brush for the day.  


“We don’t have to begin today,” Alastair said softly, his hand finally coming to rest on the smallest of his blades. The most seemingly innocent. “I could give you this,” he held up the tiny scalpel and it caught the light, shining brightly for just a moment. Dean’s eyes didn’t open, but Alastair didn’t seem to mind. “All you have to do is use it, and you won’t need to feel its bite ever again.”  


“You go to Hell.” Dean’s voice was strong, but haggard. His words came out in a burst of sound through clenched teeth, his breathing still too heavy. Too fast.  


“Ironic jest,” Alastair said with an approving air, as a teacher might praise a poor student for managing to grasp a simple concept. He trailed the blade, almost lovingly, down the outside edge of Dean’s jaw, pausing here and there as though to cut, but pulling back before the blade could pierce the skin. Razor sharp as she knew it to be, the amount of care he took was mesmerizing. With no perceptible change in pressure, the blade sank into Dean’s skin along his throat. He grunted, nearly growled, straining against his bonds in an effort to pull his head away.  


“Aw, shhh,” Alastair cooed. “Barely more than a love bite. I want you weak not comatose.” The blade pierced the skin again on the other side of his throat. Hairline cuts, just over the delicate blood vessels, not even deep enough to truly cut them wide. Thin trickles of blood oozed from the tiny cuts in small bursts with each beat of his heart. “For what I have in mind for you today? Blood and skin? They’d just get in the way.” He moved his attention further down, placing a hand on Dean’s bound wrist to further steady it before applying the blade. No shallow cuts here. Alastair pressed hard on the knife and it sliced into Dean’s arm it was nothing more than warm butter, sinking all the way to the bone before he began to slide it upwards towards the inside of the elbow. Dean howled and attempted to pull his arm away in a futile show of defiance. Or perhaps it was something as simple as trying to escape the source of his pain. Meg considered pain to be an old friend, something that was constant and inescapable. She couldn’t remember the last time she had physically run from it, because honestly, what was the point? It would find her eventually. It always did.  


“If you’re going to stand there, you may as well help.” The command wasn’t quite a snarl. How long had it been since she’d been at his side? His apprentice? A century at least. Maybe more. It was hard to keep track once she moved above ground, but Azazel had needed her. His mission was so much more important than the petty day to day of Hell. Besides, she owed him. She owed him everything. Turning her back on her teacher was the easiest decision she’d ever made. Falling back into step at his side felt strange, but familiar and she reached for the tools he would need without having to be asked. Sponges to keep the blood from pooling where he worked. Clamps to tie off the vessels. Spreader to hold the arm open while he manipulated the fragile membranes within. And all the while, the man beneath the blade writhed. He didn’t scream, like most. His expressions of pain came through clenched teeth, exhalations of air and groans of pain that couldn’t be stopped, no matter how hard he tried.  


“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Alastair chided him. “We’ve only just started. We’ve got so much to do today, you shouldn’t wear yourself out this early.” He clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “All you have to do is ask and I’ll stop. Just ask.”  


“Why do you offer him that?” The words tumbled from her in a mix of Aramaic and Latin. Her language. A language she only ever used in Hell, and only ever with him. Who else had been with her long enough to understand her? Her father was dead. Who was left who understood the first thing about her?  


“That is not for you to question,” he replied in kind, his eyes never leaving his work. A long, stuttering moan escaped his victim and he tutted once again. “Just say the words, Dean, and all this can be a memory.”  


“I was on the rack for centuries before you so much as hinted that you might let me off,” she continued, heedless of the implied warning in his words. She took the scalpel from his hand and replaced it with a small, saw toothed blade. “After everything he’s done, why would you let him go so easily?” She should have stopped herself. Should have held her tongue. Should have… “Have you gone soft?”  


She didn’t see the blow that hit her. But then, she wouldn’t have. Alastair never moved, not when her body was slung away from him like a rag doll, knocking his tray of tools to the ground with a resounding clatter. Not when her head cracked against the hard brick of the opposite wall. Not when an involuntary whimper, quickly stifled, escaped her.  


“Remember yourself, my dear,” he said, in plain English, his head bent to his work. “I’ve only time for one lesson today.”  


Meg’s insides twisted as he held her in his power. Her blood was boiling slowly, from the toes up and an invisible hand gripped her by the heart and squeezed, just enough. Her breath came in small gasps, forced into her body against the massive pressure building on her chest.  


“Yes...sir…”  


Her body fell limp to the floor, the pressure disappearing as quickly as it had come.  


“That will be all,” Alastair said, serene and detached, as ever.  


“Yes, sir,” she said again, stronger this time. Gathering what dignity she still had around her like a shield, she picked herself up off the floor and faded into the darkness as quickly as her all too human body could carry her.


	2. Chapter 2

 

He was barely aware of the passage of time. Night and day were non existent concepts in the dank darkness and searing brightness of Hell. A lifetime of being on the job had given him a good internal clock, but even that couldn’t keep up with the way time moved in Hell. He couldn’t keep track. He couldn’t mark the passage of days. He could only mark the passage of sessions. Deep gouges scarred the wall of his cell, covering nearly an entire wall now, each one made once his hands had recovered enough to make them. Each one a memory of pain and blood and his own throat torn raw. And each one just meaningless as the last. If each one marked a day, then it had been fourteen years. Fourteen years towards eternity. Sometimes he wondered if he wasn’t torturing himself more effectively than they could ever hope to.

The demons that came to retrieve him, marking the start of another “day,” did so with caution. Even now, after all these years...even now he was deadly, and they knew it. He couldn’t kill them in here, not exactly. On the rack he was a defiant victim, but in his cell? He was a caged beast. He’d torn the throat out of a demon once. Torn it with his own teeth. Another time, he’d bashed his jailors head against the walls of his cell until was nothing more than broken bits of bone and brain matter smeared across the brick and caked beneath his fingernails. The demon had smoked out before the body died, but by then it was far too late for the poor bastard. Pitiful, dying human body lost in the depths of Hell. What would happen to his soul? Dean tried to care, but day after day, he was finding it so much harder.

One of the demons cleared his throat. “It’s time,” he said simply, unlocking the door to Dean’s cell. He threw it wide and stepped back quickly, giving Dean plenty of room to exit the cell on his own power. He glared at them each in turn, head lowered, breathing deep through his nose. A wolf among sheep. They raised weapons, instinctively. A machete...an axe...bare hands...what did it matter? Chop him to bits and he’d still be there. An eternity of damnation was not so easily waylaid. They cowered away from him, the instinct of lesser beings before a predator, and he turned, walking the familiar path. He could go to the table willingly or unwillingly, but he would wind up there either way. He chose dignity. Honor. It was all he had in this place, and it was precious little.

The table, as it happened, was occupied.

“I thought we’d try something a little different today.” He’d been so focused on the table and it’s occupant that Dean hadn’t noticed Alastair standing to one side. The man...no demon, he reminded himself, moved to the table and, with one hand, lightly stroked the dark hair of the girl pinned there. She jerked her head towards him rather than away, as though she might like to bite the hand that stroked her, were she not so firmly strapped. Her body was nearly naked in front of him, covered only with the leather straps that held her prisoner. “Do you recognize her?”

“No,” Dean said simply. He wouldn’t play Alastair’s game. The man..damn it the demon should have known better than that by now.

“No, I don’t suppose you would. Sadly, you haven’t learned how to see us for what we are. For who we are.” He patted the girl’s head fondly. “This demon? She very nearly killed your brother. And your father as well. His friends. Your friends. This one...oh she’s been following you for decades. You could say it was her duty, as a faithful daughter.”

Dean stood, impassive, for a long moment, trying to piece together what he’d said. Trying to remember his life before Hell got more difficult with each passing year, but it was still there, like a dream. Or a nightmare. There were days when he wasn’t sure what was worse, facing the life he now had to live, or remembering the one he’d had before. Everything hurt. Everything cut. There was no winning, and never would be. Slowly, the words came together, and his lips pulled up in a sneer.

“Meg.”

“That’s not even her real name, you know,” Alastair continued, as though there had been no hesitation. No momentary lapse in attention. “Merely the name of some poor innocent that had to die, at your hands no less, because of her.” He stood, his movements slow and methodical, just as they always were. He pulled a long, jagged knife from his collection of instruments and held it out towards him, handle first. There was no hesitation in him. He took the knife on instinct, eyes on the trapped demon on the table in front of him.

“I’ll leave you two to get reacquainted.” Alastair smiled indulgently, a father offering candy to his favorite child, and strolled past Dean. There was a slight click as the door shut and locked behind him.

Dean stood, looking down at her, for a very long time. He breathed in shallow breaths through his nose. The room stank, as all the rooms stank, but this one in particular had a special bouquet that seemed to drive right into the base of his skull and start to ache. The ever present, almost sweet smell of decay was cloying. Choking. Beneath that was the shark reek of sulphur. She’d been bled before he’d ever arrived, for who knew how long. Time in Hell, after all, could be very fluid. He could smell his own body, stinking of unwashed clothes, sweat, and no small amount of fear. And there was her too. Yes, he could smell the fear on her, the way any predator could. It was a scent he’d never appreciated in life. Never been sensitive enough to notice. Now it was his bread and butter, his constant companion. The lack of it would have been more noticeable than its presence. And now he could smell it on her.

He didn’t know the face, but he knew the demon. Her name, when he spoke it, sounded like a curse, but it so rarely left his lips that he’d nearly forgotten it. So many years ago now, but he remembered her. She was a killer. A manipulator. She deserved this.

But this was his table. He’d been strapped to it the same as she. The stains on the floor, some of them much fresher than they should have been, were made with his blood. And now hers. She was a killer, but so was he. She was a liar, and so was he. She was under the knife, just as he had been. Only now? Now the knife was in his hand. His mind seemed to go blank at the implications, the similarities. He couldn’t start to sympathize simply because he’d been on the slab only the day before. He couldn’t, not for a demon.

Dean sighed as he set the knife down on the small metal tray by the table. He sat in Alastair’s empty chair and reached for the leather straps that bound her wrists. She watched him, not so much surprised as wary. She reminded him, in that moment of an alley cat. Some lost, wild creature, distrustful and ready to scratch. How apt was the analogy? Most stray cats, after all, had once been loved by someone. Once been loved and tossed aside. He supposed he could relate. Wasn’t that what his dad had done to him the moment their house had gone up in flames? Wasn’t that what Sam had done, on a dark road in the middle of nowhere, when he’d left him to go to Stanford? Worst day of his life, even counting the Hellhounds. Always had been, always would be.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, raising himself off the chair just enough to reach across to her other wrist. He pulled the straps free and sat back. Meg gathered her arms close to her chest, instinctively, but she needn’t have bothered. He wasn’t looking, and the strap that held her down preserved most of her modesty anyway. Modesty in Hell. Laughable concept. He doubted her attempts to cover herself were a result of shyness. Hell, he was pretty sure she’d have stood naked in front of him with no qualms, long as it had him on his heels. This was about vulnerability, and that was something he could understand. He understood too much. “You wanna know the best part?” he asked ruefully. “We were topside right now?” His mouth pulled down in a frown of distaste, but he shrugged one shoulder dismissively. “Finding you trussed up like that would be like sitting down to Christmas dinner.”

Dean sat for a long moment, his elbows resting on his things, hands clasped between his knees. “Gonna thank me?” he asked with a slight twitch of his lips, a ghost of a smile that came nowhere near his eyes.

“No.”

Her voice was huskier than what he remembered. Supposed that came with the new meatsuit.

“Yeah, I probably wouldn’t thank me either,” he said, leaning back, his eyes drifting away from her. He stood, casually and comfortably, on his way from sofa to fridge, not torture chamber to cell. “You’re not welcome, anyway.” He didn’t look back as he stepped through the door, but he didn’t close it behind him. Her hands were free. She could free herself now or rot for all he cared. Wasn’t any of his damn business.


	3. Chapter 3

  


There was no dignity in Hell. Not for any of them. Meg had freed herself from the table as quickly as she dared, watching carefully as his figure dwindled to nothingness in the distant darkness. Now was the time to leave. His mercy today would result in pain for both of them tomorrow, and the only way to avoid was to not be present when the collector came to call. But getting out of Hell was never an easy task. There were so many doors, so man wandering paths, and so many other lost souls trying for exactly the same door. She’d seen souls torn to shreds right before her eyes the last time she’d climbed out, and she had no intention of joining their number. Still, even facing such a possibility, it was the wiser path. Wiser by far than what she was doing now.

Meg dragged clothes over her aching body, wincing as the muscles pulled at bones not yet fully healed. On the outside, she looked whole, but she hadn’t been whole in centuries. Here, in these pits, she only became more broken. Sometimes she felt like nothing so much as a puppet with cut strings as she pushed her body, her stolen body, through the motions of living. She’d been left no shoes, and so she pressed on barefoot. The grit beneath her feet was familiar, as was the occasional bite of small stones against the unprotected skin. Funny how such small hurts could cause reactions almost as easily as a knife between her ribs. She felt smaller without the added, artificial height of her boots. Smaller and more vulnerable.

She didn’t have to look for his cell. Hell was a funny place in a lot of ways. A Labyrinth that constantly shifted, betraying the wanderer. But she was not a wanderer. For her, the paths righted themselves, lead her where she wanted to go. For her? There was only one path.

Dean’s cell was vacant when she arrived. She’d beaten him to it, despite leaving after, and she used the time to her advantage, prowling the edges, taking in the cage and everything it said about the animal it held. The walls were marked by gashes, the grayness of their centers marking their age far better than their actual count could. She ran her fingers along them. The oldest ones, the ones from his first years in Hell, were deeper. Angrier. He’d carved them in frustrated determination, a need to mark the passage of time, such as it was. The newer ones? Barely scratches in the hard stone. He was losing interest. He was losing his ability to care. Losing hope. That was the point wasn’t it? That was the goal.

“Shoulda left you tied down.”

Meg turned in the direction of his voice, a half smile already on her lips. He towered over her, blocking out what little weak light filtered in from the hallway beyond, but it was only physical height. Down here? She dwarfed him. 

“And why didn’t you?” she asked, effecting a tone that implied she already knew, and was amused by his answer. Liar. But she was so very good at lies.

Dean didn’t answer. He stepped into the small room, his face lost in darkness that even she couldn’t see through. For a moment, she thought he might advance on her. Might reach for her, try to right his mistake at the table. She held her breath, waiting. Watching. But he didn’t touch her. Didn’t reach for her at all. For one brief moment he stood close, menacing, like a tiger sizing her up, ready to spring. And then he stepped aside.

“Get out.”

“Why did you cut me loose?” She hadn’t meant to ask him, hadn’t realized until that moment why she’d really come. 

She could see his eyes in the gloom, but only barely. He looked at her quickly, a flick of the eyes only, and in that look she saw too much. Pain and suffering were her art form. She knew the strokes of a master when she saw them in them in front of her. She’d seen them often enough, after all. Every time she looked in the mirror she saw them, etched into her bones. The burnt, dessicated thing she had become had been pulled from flesh and bone as surely as an angel pulled from marble by the hands of sculpture. What was it that Michelangelo had said? “I saw an angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” Whatever lurked within Dean Winchester was no angel, and never would be. 

“Why did you set me free?” A whisper. A sound nearly lost in the darkness.

“Because I’m not a monster.” Yet. He didn’t say it. They both heart it.

She didn’t run as she left, but she wanted to.


	4. Chapter 4

He no longer marked the days on the walls. He no longer cared. The most recent marks were old enough now that the damp and the dirt had started to reclaim them. The oldest? He could barely see them in the dark, but if he searched for them, he could still feel them. Scars on the stone to mark the passage of eternity. Pointless. Impossible. And far too human.  
And that was something he didn’t feel like he could call himself. Not anymore.

“Heard the big news.” A slow,seductive draw behind him and he didn’t have to turn to know who was there. She was always there. Sometimes he’d catch sight of her, in the shadows, watching him. Other times he’d see her fighting. Fighting her own kind as they tried to strap her down. No rest for the wicked, not even here. These things were cannibals. What did that make him?

“Not in the mood,” he said dryly, waving her off without turning to look. He ran his fingers over the wall again. The newest marks were at least five years old. Moss grew in their valleys and stuck damply to his fingertips.

“Can you imagine my surprise?” she asked, mock amusement in her voice. Or maybe she actually was amused. It was always so hard to tell with her. “Precious little Dean. Up off the table.” She paused, and he knew what was coming before she said it. Knew and could do nothing to prevent the words from coming. “Thought you weren’t a monster.” She laughed, and something inside of him, locked in the darkest places he held, snapped. Dean turned, closing the small distance between them in one stride and latching onto her upper arms with bruising force. She gasped, but not in fear. That infuriating little smirk never left her face. With a growl, he turned to the side dragging her bodily and slamming her against the wall. Small shards of stone rained down onto the floor of the cell.

“I will never be like you,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

“Oh sweetie,” she chided, seemingly unphased by his actions. “You were like me a long time before you took up the knife. I’ll let you in on a little secret.” She leaned forward, as far his grip on he would allow, and stage whispered in his year as she ran her hands over his stomach, making his skin crawl. “You’ve always been a monster. You’ve got a higher body count than I do.”

Dean letter he go, but she didn’t move away from him. If anything, she slid closer, her hands travelling up his chest. “You were always gonna end up here.” She didn’t sound amused anymore, she sounded like she was trying to be honest with him. For once. He loomed over her, expecting her to cower or move away as he got too close, practically baring his teeth at her.

“Maybe I was,” he conceded, because now, in this place, how could he not? He clenched his jaw, waiting for her to laugh. To mock him. Anything.

Meg raised up on her tiptoes, far too close to him. He could feel her breath on his face.

“Never suited for a halo. You look better with a pitchfork. What are you going to do now that you’ve popped that cherry?”  
A moment’s hesitation, less than a second. Less than a heartbeat. And yet still enough for her to snort in derision and turn away. He was on her in a flash, hand fisting in her hair and drawing her face back around toward him, crushing his lips against hers in a kiss that was too hard. Her teeth sank into his lip just before she thrust her tongue into his mouth. He tasted blood and smoke, heat like a fire in his mouth, and dragged her all the closer. It was a kiss that was more violence than passion. More hatred than desire. A kiss that was teeth and blood and a pounding in his ears that could only be his racing heart.

Meg’s fingers curled beneath the collar of his shirt. Blackened and stained, littered with burn holes and tears, it parted in her hands the moment she pulled, tearing in one long rip right down the center.

“Very Captain Kirk,” she chuckled as her hands slid beneath the frayed edges and around his body. She sank her nails into his back as her lips trailed across his throat. “Be honest, lover boy. How long have you been picturing this?”

“Shut up,” he snarled and covered her mouth with his. She dragged her nails down his skin, the immediate, lancing sting drawing a hiss of indrawn breath, nearly lost against her lips. He was breathing her in and she didn’t taste like ashes. She tasted like cherry lipstick and whiskey.

Dean hooked his hands behind her thighs and lifted. She complied as though she’d expected the move, hopping up as he lifted her and wrapping her legs tight around his waist, one still trapped at the ankle, her pants and underwear trailing down along his back. A few quick steps and he was able to slam her against the wall, tiny bits of crumbled brick raining down as he did so. She gasped on impact, the breathy sound turning into an amused laugh. She arched her back, rolling her hips against him. “Don’t hold back now, Deano. Show me how you really feel.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The wall held her in place enough that he only held her with one hand. With the other, he pulled the button of his pants free, nearly tearing it from the fabric as he did so, and shoving them down and out of the way. Touching her roughly, for guidance, he could feel the heat that came off her and wetness coated his fingers. He thrust upward, hard and without preamble, without warning, a groan that seemed bone deep coming out of him. He froze there, buried to the hilt, hardly able to move. The feeling of pleasure was so foreign it was almost painful. His eyes closed and he rest his forehead against the curve of her throat, breathing heavily. He waited for the quip, the insult. He waited for her to tell him to get on with it, but she remained silent. Her breathing was as heavy as his. Her pulse raced beneath her skin. Opening his eyes, mouth open to draw in the gaping lungfuls of air he suddenly needed, he looked at her.

Wide black eyes. An expression as fogged and lost as his own. He lingered there, surprised and cautious. He’d been in Hell so long that he forgot, sometimes. Forgot where the line was between humanity and...this. He forgot, when he looked at her, that he wasn’t actually seeing her. He was seeing another innocent girl, one who might not survive what had been done to her. But in that blackness, there wasn’t an ounce of humanity. For that brief second, he was looking at her, not the girl she wore. He was looking at a soul as blackened and twisted as his was becoming.  
Her hands curled around the back of his head, tracing his cheek almost gently with her thumb, and she pulled him forward to kiss her again. It wasn’t gentle. Nothing about them would ever be gentle. Slowly, he began to move. The hands that gripped her thighs were too tight. He’d leave bruises, and part of him was glad. He wanted to leave his mark on her. Slow at first, he began to pick up speed. His hips snapped against her, driving her into the wall, and he dragged her body to meet each thrust. The heat of her body against his was nearly enough to burn as he drove into her. The feracity of it, the violence, broke her away from him as she cried out. In pleasure? In pain? There was no way to know, and precious little difference. She bit into his shoulder to stifle the cries, hard enough to draw blood, and he barely felt it.

"What would poor Daddy think of you now?" she chided, breathing heavily, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. Her voice hitched on every thrust, like a punctuation mark between each word. "Balls deep in the bitch who tried to kill him. Think he’s rolling over in his grave right now?" She chuckled darkly. “If he had one, anyway.”

Her barb hit home, but he couldn’t stop. They were long since past the point of no return. He stilled just long enough to grab a fist full of her hair. As he dragged her head back, forcing her to look up at him, she laughed. At him, at their situation, who could tell. The blackness in her eyes was still unreadable, unfathomable. There was a growl on his lips as he slammed into her, slower but harder, each thrust an assault. A punishment and a reward for her insults.

There was a pressure building in him, pulling every muscle taut nearly to the point of pain. Everything he did was pain, now. Pain was his one great love, the first thing he thought of in the morning, and the last before he went to sleep at night. And it wasn’t even Hell’s doing. His life was pain, and nothing was ever going to change that. 

Her body was practically trembling beneath him, her legs pulling tighter as she urged him faster, harder. Her head tilted back in front of him bared the column of her throat, providing too much of a temptation to be resisted. He closed his mouth over the sensitive flesh, biting and sucking until the pale skin was littered with small bruises and marks. Her body went rigid beneath him and she cried out, clutching at him like a woman drowning. He watched her, enrapture by the way her body moved as she came apart beneath his hands. She tightened around him as the pleasure rolled through her in nearly visible waves and she became almost boneless in his arms. His pace became erratic as the convulsions of her body fought him, holding him too tight, and the pressure became nearly unbearable. Meg opened her eyes, and he looked down into those black pits, knowing that one day all too soon he would look exactly the same, and lost himself in her. Every muscle felt as though it might snap, and he held her close, searching for grounding in the eye of the storm.

When he came, it was with animalist howl. The sound echoed off the stone walls and he brought his head down to her shoulder, sinking his teeth into her in an effort to muffle the sound, thrusting into her with each pulse. He bit harder and his mouth filled with blood, but he didn’t pull away. For a long moment, neither of the moved. He could feel her racing pulse, a mirror to his own. She chuckled darkly in his ear.

“Monster,” she whispered.


	5. Chapter 5

The first few years and he was still more or less human. By year six, his eyes had started to flicker with black. It crept in around the edges like a spreading disease, a process that normally took centuries being condensed into a handful of years because he was their special little man. Dean Winchester, the righteous man who took up arms in hell. And he was hers. All hers.

Meg slid her body slowly over top of his, the contact of her skin against his only broken by the thick leather straps that circled around his chest, his waist, and the tops of his thighs. His hands she kept pinned above his head, bound wrist to wrist and tethered to the top of the table. The muscles of his arms stood out in sharp relief as he strained against the hold. He arched against his restraints, the leather creaking against it’s moorings as he did so. So strong. He’d always been a strong man, but with each passing year that strength grew. It turned into something more than just human. Every day, he became more and more like her, but she would always be stronger. She’d been alive too long, spent too many centuries exactly where he was now, to let anyone overtake her now. Even him. Particularly him. Wasn’t that what this little game was about, after all? She could feel the swollen hardness of him pressed against her belly, feeling more like steel than flesh after nearly an hour spent on the table with no relief in sight. Had she positioned herself high on him, he might have felt her own response, wet and sticky between her legs, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not yet.

“Tell me you want me.” She half smiled at him, her chin lightly resting in the center of his chest as her fingers ran feather light over the taut muscles across his ribs, making him squirm. 

“Kinda obvious, don’t you think?” he ground out between clenched teeth, attempting to raise his hips to grind against her and failing. He had to be at the point of pain now, which was exactly where she wanted him. When she finally took him, it would be over in under a minute. Her fingers dug into his sides, leaving long, red scratches behind and he hissed, that cloudy blackness skirting across his eyes once more.

“I want to hear you say it.” Her smile never faltered.

“I want you,” he nearly spat at her. “You know it, I know it, fucking flies on the wall know it.” He head slammed back against the table and he pulled at the straps again, making a sound that was equal parts grown and growl as the leather refused to give. She wondered if he truly regretted agreeing to this, now that he was here, though his choice in the matter was truly negligible. He was right about one thing. He did want her, and she did know it. That was the only thing that had gotten him on the table to begin with.

“Language,” she tutted, mock disapproval in her voice. “We have rules and you know it. Want me? Earn me.”

“Little hard when I can barely move,” he responded, quick as a flash, sounding almost conversation. He raised one brow in challenge and she laughed, a bizarrely carefree sound in the stark room, its walls so much more used to sounds of pain than amusement.

“What I’ve got in mind? You don’t have to lift a finger.” Meg pressed a quick kiss to the center of his chest, right on the sternum, before she started to draw herself up his body. For the barest second, she let their hips fit snuggly together, rubbing her wetness against his erection teasingly, delighting in the way his head fell back against the metal table with a dull clang. But she didn’t linger. She kissed her way, almost gently, across the planes of his chest, sinking her teeth suddenly into his nipple and making him jump, before pulling herself still higher. By the time she settled, with one leg on either side of his head, her calves hooked beneath his pinned arms, anchoring her in place, he knew what was expected of him. 

“Earn me,” she said again, fingers winding through his hair, seeking a firm grip, as she lowered herself onto his mouth.

As a man, he’s certainly known how to please a woman. But she was no ordinary woman, and he was a man no longer. No really. This wasn’t the first time he’d had his mouth on her, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, if she had any say in the matter. But still, he applied himself to the task as though he’d never had the chance to taste her before, and it was all he wanted out of life. Even without hands, he could bring her to the brink, and they both knew it. His tongue drove into her, making her gasp, but it wasn’t deep enough. Not nearly deep enough. She pulled him closer, grinding down against him. His arms strained to reach for her, the veins on his forearms standing out in sharp relief and she fell forward just enough to grip the leather cup that bound his wrists in one hand. The other stayed locked his hair, pushing him against her, as if he had any chance of pulling away. Or any inclination. Meg fucked herself against his tongue, tiny yips and sighs of pleasure escaping her as she rode him.

But he wanted more of her. He devoured her, but he also drew away, just enough to seek out her clit. He was spoiling her for other men, that was a given. No one had ever fucked her like this, and maybe no one ever would again, and he wasn’t even using his goddamn hands. His lips closed around her clit, almost gently, and he flicked his tongue against the sensitive spot, causing her breathing to hitch and her whole body to convulse on top of him. She leaned back, giving him more access, stretching her body to make it easier for him. She let go of his head and, with both hands behind her, braced herself against his body. Everything he did, every move he made, sent shockwaves through her, causing her muscles to contract and her body to shiver in anticipation. She wanted to fuck him, wanted to be filled by him and ride him until he exploded, taking her with him. His teeth came down on her clit, almost too hard, almost as if he could see her thoughts and knew what she wanted. Her body jerked against him as the tension that had been building insider reached its breaking point. She almost couldn’t feel him any more as she writhed against his mouth, calling out a wordless entreaty to God only knew who as her world stopped turning and condensed into the rush of sensation that started between her legs and filled her entire body. Her body shook, almost ached, as she started to come down, the world coming back into focus. She looked down the slope of her body to see him, head raised off the table, the better to reach her. His eyes were open. He looked almost smug. Damn him.

Her body still twitching against him, her muscles still contracting, she pulled away from him with a growl, freeing her legs from the confinement of his arms and sliding down his body. She took him in one push, sinking down onto him all the way to the hilt with barely any resistance. Her muscles squeezed around him, the sudden fullness making her cry out, a mirror cry for his own deeper groan. Her mouth hung open in a wordless cry as she sank against him, wanting to feel his skin against her skin. She wanted to kiss him, to taste herself on his lips, but she couldn’t. Her body was so much smaller than his, she simply couldn’t reach. Not with him bound and unable to come to her. She moved her body slowly against his, the barest amount of friction causing her to throb around him again. He moaned again, higher in pitch, more desperate. She’d been right, this wouldn’t take long at all. 

Bracing herself with both palms flat on his chest, she raised her body, almost leaving him, before slamming back down with near painful force. The leather that bound him creaked again, warningly. It wouldn’t hold much longer. She could see the deep red marks it made as it bit into his skin, but she knew it would give in long before he did. She raised her hips, slammed down on him again, faster this time. Bruising. Her body throbbed, but weaker this time, the waves finally receding. If he’d had a hand free, he might have helped her prolong the experience. As it was, she had to help herself. One hand snaked between their bodies, going straight for that most sensitive spot. Her fingers brushed against him, where he entered her body, and she shivered, slamming her hips against his again. There was no rhythm. No tempo. It was the desperate crashing of waves, one after another, as she broke against him. Already tense, already shaking and sensitive almost the point of pain, her body responded to her own well practiced touch with predictable intensity. She writhed against him erratically, one moment grinding against him, the next riding him hard and fast.

She didn’t hear the leather snapping. His hands suddenly gripped her hips, fingers sinking in hard enough to leave small bruises almost immediately, and he dragged her down on him hard once...twice...a third time. A primal cry, loud enough to be heard echoing down the empty hallway beyond their small room, ripped from his throat as his body went rigid beneath her. She could feel him convulsing inside her, and her body, at last, seized around him once more, smaller than the first, but no less sweet. Perhaps, in some ways, even better. Her muscles squeezed just as he throbbed within her, working together, in sync, a pleasure no other creatures could ever hope to feel because no creatures were like them. So unique. Coming together in the only place they had ever been likely to do so.

Panting, Meg collapsed against his chest, her body slick with sweat. She expected his grip on her to slack, to slide down her hips. She expected him to push her away, as he so often did. Slowly, his hands slid up her back, firm yet gentle as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. One hand found its way into her hair, and raised her head to look at him, an amused question in her eyes and a chiding remark on her lips, but she never got to make it. Firm pressure on the back of her head brought her down to kiss him. Not hard, like so many of their kisses. Not taking from her as she took from him. His lips were soft and yielding and, when his tongue brushed against hers, it wasn’t a demand but a plea. She’d been kissed like this before, so many times, by so many husbands and wives who thought they were looking at the person they loved when they looked into her eyes. But no one had ever kissed her like this. She pulled away, just out of reach, her lips still brushing lightly against his as she breathed, and opened her eyes, confused and maybe a little afraid. His eyes, as he looked up at her, were black.


	6. Chapter 6

  


The day the war truly started, Meg was on her own. Half a decade he’d been at her side nearly every moment. They no longer locked him up at night. They no longer asked him for anything he wasn’t willing to give. When the angels descended, he was nowhere they might have been able to protect him. Nowhere she might have saved him. Light filled Hell for the first time in a millenium and left death and destruction in its wake. When it finally ascended, it took him with it. 

Meg watched the Light as it faded in the distance, her mouth open in a wordless plea. It hurt her eyes to watch it, but she couldn’t look away. Couldn’t give up the watch until it was completely gone. Until he was completely gone. Only when darkness had once more fallen would she lower her eyes, turning away. Her face fell into a look of determination.

“And what are planning, witha look like that on?” She turned to look at him, her old master. Alastair stood beside her, arms crossed lightly over his chest. He looked down on her with undisguised amusement.

“I’m going up.” Not question. Not a request. Going topside wasn’t easy,even for the best of them. Didn’t matter. She was gong.

“Ah,” he said, amusement growing. “You’re going to save hm.” Also not a question.

Meg didn’t answer. She fixed him with a look of insolence that, at other times, would have earned swift retribution.

“Do you really think…” He paused, drawing out the moment, looking down at her with an obscene amount of enjoyment. “Do you really think they’ll let him remember you?” Alistair picked up a lock of her hair, twirling it in his fingers. Her eyes, cast upward, where the light still burned her eyes as it shrank into a pin prick and disappeared.

“They have to. They don’t want him to forget Hell. Not if they want him to be their pawn.” And they clearly did. Why else would they have taken him? They had to believe that he could somehow stop the things he’d set in motion, but he couldn’t. No one could now.

“Oh they’ll leave him Hell. Most of it. But you can’t honestly expect them to let him have anything good to take away from this.” His tone was chiding, an instructor to his pupil. He took her chin between his thumb and index finger, forcing her to look up at him. “The next time you see him, he’ll try to kill you. And if you are as stupid as I think you are, you won’t even see it coming.”

Meg jerked her head sideways, attempting to free herself. She bit down hard on the fleshy thumb and tasted blood. Alistair merely chuckled.

“That’s my scrappy little girl,” he practically cooed. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”


	7. Chapter 7

**One Year Later**

The blade slid into her body as easily as a hot knife through butter. Pain was an old, familiar friend, but experiencing it through the medium of a human body was almost completely foreign. She’d forgotten what this could be like. The subtle, yet sharp feeling of the point piercing her side. The almost nonexistent sensation of the blade raking along her skin. It was sharp enough that the act of cutting was not, in and of itself, painful. It was the open flesh it left its wake that burned. She smell of her blood, rank with sulphur, hung heavy in the air, and her torturer breathed deep through his knows, enjoying it like the fine bouquet of an expensive glass of wine.

“Somewhere in this building,” he said with deceptive calm, “your little friends are being cut down. If you listen hard enough, you might just hear them scream.” He drew out the final word, leering obscenely as he pushed the knife upwards into the most sensitive places of her pitifully human body. And she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t stop herself from rising to the taunt. She screamed.

“Dean Winchester’s behind you...Meatsack,” she gasped, more relief than she’d ever be able to explain away coloring her voice. His look of surprise lasted only a moment as the blade was plucked from his hand. The knife slammed into his back and his soul burned, right in front of her. She had just enough in her to relish the stink of burning ozone as he was obliterated completely. It was the last of her. She sagged against the table, panting, her eyes fluttering though she refused to let them close.

Alistair had said he wouldn’t remember, and oh how she’d wanted to believe he was lying. But every moment, every action, every word he’d spoken since she’d clawed her way back to the surface, had been a reminder of one of Alistair’s most basic lessons. The best tortures, the deepest hurts, they never came from pain and suffering. They came from hope. A broken creature would never suffer as much as one that still believed there might be an end to their torment. She’d forgotten. She had. But now she remembered.

He would leave her. His brother urged him on and she knew it was coming. Knew he would leave her to her death, if not kill him herself. She was certain of it, and she was certain she didn’t want to face her death with her eyes closed. One shuddering breath after another, she tried to focus on him. He looked down on her with the same look of pity and understanding that she’d seen so many times. A look she could have traced with her eyes closed. A look they shared, because they’d both shared the table. Their blood had pooled together on the ground. They were the same because their suffering was the same. Did he remember? Did he?


	8. THE ARTWORK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to tumblr user MSDoomandGloom for her TRULY amazing art.

  



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